


What's in a Nightmare

by Red Charade (traciller)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Foul Language, Gen, Nudity, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:06:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traciller/pseuds/Red%20Charade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds himself in a room with a man who refuses to acknowledge his presence and no idea how he got there, or why everything seems so bloody familiar!</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's in a Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own BBC’s Sherlock, the characters, or anything else associated with the show. All rights are reserved to their respective owners. No money is being made from this work.

It’s very strange, standing here in this bedroom. It seems vaguely familiar to me. I feel as if I should know it. It’s actually very vexing. I never forget things like this!  
  
As my brow furrows in discontent, I notice there is another occupant in the room and suddenly I wonder why I’m in here. This person doesn’t seem to realize I’m here. A man, in his thirties. Naked. Not too tall. Fit. But, I can only see his torso.  
  
Why is the rest of him in shadow like that? The sunlight streaming the window is obviously morning light. I should be able to see more.  
  
Before I have a chance to think about asking, I hear faint sounds. It takes me less than a second to realize that this man is...sobbing. He is sitting naked on his bed and sobbing into his hands. Suddenly, I’m not at all sure whether to interrupt. Generally, I don’t care whether or not someone is having a personal crisis or some other emotional issue. I’ll ask something if I think it’s pertinent. Or even if I don’t think it is, if I find it curious enough. But, for some reason, watching this man...stops me from opening my mouth.  
  
I feel a deep sadness for him and I don’t understand why. This hasn’t happened before. Not to me. What do I care if some stranger is crying? There are more important things to worry about. But, for some reason this man’s discomfort is...so important to me. I want to make it better. Make him stop crying. To know it will be alright. But, I just stay still.  
  
I’m not really that good at comforting. And, even if I were I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what the problem is, and I can’t bring myself to use my voice right now.  
  
Who is this man? I must know him. In some capacity.  He can’t be a total stranger. I’m standing his bedroom, after all. And we’re alone. In the morning. But, nothing feels out of the ordinary with myself. So, I know that nothing has...happened between us. He seems oblivious to my presence, anyway.  
  
This is a puzzle that I can’t figure out. I’m missing so much information that I’d already have by this point. I should already have by this point. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.  
  
“Too much...just too much. I..I can’t handle...these bloody nightmares anymore...” the quiet whisper sounds almost deafening to me in the quiet of this room right now. But, it supplies me with some answers. This man suffers from nightmares and they’re obviously chronic. And hideous enough to keep him distressed enough for long enough to cry.  
  
But, is he telling me about the problem or is he speaking to himself? It sounds more as if he’s speaking to himself, not expecting anyone to hear or reply. Again, speech seems beyond my ability right now. Not just speech, even, but movement as well. I cannot reach out to this man, I cannot speak to him.  
  
Why? What is wrong with me?  
  
“I just can’t take it anymore...I tried, I really did. I tried so hard. They even went away for a while...” his voice seems a little more...confident?...than before. No...not confident. Resigned. He’s accepted the nightmares and made a decision. I can see it in the set of his shoulders now as he takes his hands from his face.  
  
“But, they’re back...they’re never going to go away. Not really...” resignation is such a sad tone when heard in this man’s voice. This man whose bedroom seems so familiar. Even his body seems familiar...there’s something about his shoulders...I should be noticing something.  
  
Why is my brain not working properly?! Something tells me if I don’t get my brain to work properly again--  
  
The man deliberately, but slowly, gets up from the bed. His gait is familiar as he walks across the room, still completely naked. His gait, the swing of his arms, the angle of his shoulders. What about the shoulders, dammit?! What am I to remember that I can’t??  
  
Still the damn sunlight. It’s defying physics. It’s morning sunlight, bright and cheery, but it’s hitting him head on and still somehow certain areas are in full shadow. His buttocks, namely. It makes no sense, I hate things that make so little sense they probably came out of Anderson’s lackluster imagination.  
  
And his back is still facing me. There’s no way I can see his face. This is infuriating because there still seems to be no way for me to let him know that he is not alone, to at least call out or otherwise get his attention to have him turn.  
  
But, his hair...his hair is short, cropped neatly. Like a soldier’s. Sandy. In fact, his stance and his gait are also very soldier-like. Yes, this man is a soldier. That would explain his nightmares, they’re probably from his time in a war zone.  
  
A war zone...a soldier who suffers from debilitating nightmares, with a funny shoulder, and sandy hair...Oh...oh, of course. Why did it take me so long to realize??  
  
Stopping in front of the small desk, he opens a drawer slowly. It squeaks on it’s track as he opens it, and pulls out a semi-automatic handgun.  
  
No...no, this can’t...he can’t...  
  
“John, what are you doing?” I ask. Apparently, I can speak now. I guess fear has loosened my tongue. But...of course, I know what he’s doing...  
  
But, he ignores me. Instead, he turns off the safety on the gun, I hear it, and I also hear him pull back the slide. The gun is now loaded and engaged as he puts it to his temple and I realize what he’s going to do. I feel sick to my stomach with the idea of it, let alone the image of it.  
  
“JOHN! NO!!”  
  
\--BANG!--  
  


****

  
  
“NO!” I scream again, sitting up. Sitting up? Yes...sitting up. I’m in bed. I’m sweating and the blankets are tangled around me but everything seems fine.  
  
I wipe my forehead. The sweat is cold and clammy. But, the house is silent. Still, I feel uneasy. I have to prove to myself this was a dream, and not a memory. John should still be upstairs, in his bed at this hour. I can see that by looking at the clock, it’s not even 7:30 in the morning yet.  
  
I untangle myself from the blankets and stand up, padding my way quietly out of the room, through the flat and out the door to go up the stairs to John’s room, quietly and gently easing the door open, bracing myself to see something that I can’t bear to think of.  
  
But, everything is fine. John is still in bed. The blankets are tangled around him, much like mine were around myself, but nothing seems to be...wrong. He’s breathing.  
  
I frown at my own stupidity and ease the door shut as I leave the room, going downstairs and back to my own room to get into bed. I am a fool, of course. It was just that bloody case, that’s all. John had come close to dying and...he is my only friend. I’ve never been closer to anyone else than I am to John. It would hurt...so much...if he died. To have to work his murder case.  
  
I squeeze my eyes shut and pull the blankets over myself again. I will not think about such things. It’s foolish. John is fine, he would not and will not commit suicide.  
  


****

  
  
I’m still tired when I wake again. I didn’t have another dream, but one look at the clock tells me why. I hadn’t been sleeping for very long, not even quite one hour. Enough time to reach REM, but not to really remember whatever it was I dreamed of. I just remember the nightmare from before. That horrible nightmare.  
  
But, I comfort myself with the knowledge of reality. John was, and probably still is for another few minutes, sleeping upstairs. He seemed more or less peaceful. Certainly not in the throes of a terrifying nightmare.  
  
It was the morning sun that had me up again so soon. It had climbed high enough in the sky to shine directly into my eyes. What a bothersome predicament. Perhaps, I’ll invest in some blackout curtains for the times I actually wish to sleep.  
  
I turn around, feeling irritable and squeeze my eyes shut again. I’m determined to sleep, if for no other reason than to simply spite my own foolishness and the infuriating sun that both want to conspire to keep me awake. I sleep so seldom that you would think Fate would deign to allow me to get some good rest when I actually do decide to.  
  
Despite my angry musings, I do start to drift off. But, just before I actually do fall asleep, I hear something. Something not right. Something that I ordinarily might not bother with paying attention to when it’s just another distraction preventing me from exacting my spiteful vengeance against, mainly, the sun. But, it’s too familiar for me to shrug off.  
  
Instead, I open my eyes. Sit up, listen. That sound...no...no, it can’t be. I’m imagining it. I must be imagining it. It’s paranoia brought on from the nightmare I had earlier.  
  
But, what I hear...is sobbing. From upstairs. John sobbing. His voice, his sobs. His tears. Could he have had another nightmare between when I’d checked on him earlier and now?  
  
While I sat here stupidly idle, however, trying to make sense of my fogged and unwilling thoughts -- my mind has never felt so sluggish, I wish I could remember if perhaps I’d taken something before sleeping the first time -- the sobbing had stopped and a new sound had occurred.  
  
Footsteps across the ceiling. But, my ceiling is John’s floor and it creaks just a little.  
  
Dawning horror nearly short-circuits what is left of my sluggish brain, my eyes widen and my breathing hitches as I start to throw aside the covers and get up.  
  
The last thing I hear before I hurry from my bedroom is the sound of the drawer on John’s desk. The one with the nasty squeak as it is pulled along it’s track.  
  
“JOHN!!”  
  
  
End


End file.
